


Zero to Sixty

by sinfuldesire_archivist



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Humor, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-01-12
Updated: 2007-01-12
Packaged: 2018-09-03 10:53:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8709619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinfuldesire_archivist/pseuds/sinfuldesire_archivist
Summary: It's Dean's nineteenth birthday; he and Sam get up to shenanigans which include but are certainly not limited to kinky roleplaying lapdances and drunk on-the-Impala sex.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the Sinful Desire archivists: this story was originally archived at [Sinful-Desire.org](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Sinful_Desire). To preserve the archive, we began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in November 2016. We e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [Sinful Desire collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/sinfuldesire/profile).

Title: Zero to Sixty  
Author: Impertinence  
Rating: Adult  
Pairing: Sam/Dean  
Summary: It's Dean's nineteenth birthday; he and Sam get up to shenanigans which include but are certainly not limited to kinky roleplaying lapdances and drunk on-the-Impala sex.  
Notes: Technically this is a prequel to [Input, Output](http://impertinence.livejournal.com/177377.html), but only in the sense that I mentioned Impala-sex and then really wanted to write it.  
  
  
As it turns out, Sam’s teacher was totally lying when she said that he’d die of syphilis if he ever had sex.  
  
It was his bad luck that he ended up getting sex ed in Missouri. Dean had told him about sex years before, of course—“And don’t do the town bike, because dude, there’s no telling what she has”—but he got the official class when he was thirteen and going to Frederick Douglass Middle School.  
  
But two years later he lost his virginity to Meriton, Nevada’s sophomore prom Princess-in-Waiting, and he very definitely didn’t die. In fact, two days later he made it with the head of the cheerleading squad, and the day after that the lead in the school play blew him backstage in between acts.  
  
“I’m just saying, you’re turning into a slut,” Dean says, rooting around in the fridge.  
  
“I am not!” Sam threw a crumpled-up sheet of misfactored polynomials at Dean, hitting him in the crotch. “Anyway, you still do high school girls and you’re _old._ ”  
  
“Hey!” Dean looks like he’s trying for righteous indignation, but the smirk kind of damages the effect. “I’m only eighteen.”  
  
“Nineteen tomorrow,” Sam points out, and finishes his last math problem. “And no, I’m not going to get drunk with you. Last year was bad enough.”  
  
“All we did last year was get high.” And now Dean’s actually pouting, which…doesn’t have the effect it should and, in fact, has exactly the effect it _shouldn’t._  
  
“Yeah, well, getting high is bad, and—bad,” Sam says, shoving all his papers together and standing up too quickly. “And anyway, I have other things to do.”  
  
“Aw, c’mon.” Dean stops him from leaving by plopping his (pretty much perfect, and Sam did _not_ just think that) ass on the table. “You, me, a bottle of Cuervo, some Metallica…”  
  
It sounds weirdly like a date. Sam literally bites his tongue to keep from making some crack about putting out. _No,_ he says, except his brain hates him so somehow he hears himself say, “Okay.”  
  
Dean grins wide enough to just about split his face in half and claps Sam on the back. “Excellent,” he says, hopping off the table. “Knew I could count on you, little bro.”  
  
Sam very carefully puts his binder in his backpack before straightening up and glaring at Dean. “Never,” he says sternly, “Call me that again. Ever.”  
  
“Alright, sport.”  
  
“I am going to kill you,” Sam says sincerely. Dean cackles and makes a break for it, slamming the door on his way out. He’s half way to the car when Sam catches up and hops onto Dean’s back, hitting his shin on the car as he claps a hand over Dean’s eyes. “Gotcha!” he crows, but his triumph is short-lived, because Dean flips him over and slams him against the Impala.  
  
“Give,” he says, grinning. Sam twists, fighting to get free—and then freezes, because his crotch is right up against Dean’s, and. _Wow._  
  
There’s a split second when their eyes meet and Dean’s widen; and maybe Sam moves a little closer, maybe he licks his lips, because next thing Sam knows, Dean’s stepping back and ruffling Sam’s hair.  
  
“Get in the car, kid,” he says. Sam’s dazed enough to obey without protest.  
  
||  
  
“I don’t care,” Dean says. “Finish your homework.”  
  
“But Dean, _Debbie Mason._ ” Sam pauses for effect. “You know, the girl everyone wants to—“  
  
“Homework now. Frisky sex stuff tomorrow.”  
  
Sam’s about to snap back when he realizes what that (might hopefully maybe) implies. “Whatever,” he grumbles, but sits down and gets to work.  
  
||  
  
The big day starts innocently enough.  
  
Dean throws a bundled-up sock at Sam's head, which means _Wake up, doofus._ Sam punches Dean in the arm on the way to the bathroom: his way of saying _You'd better not've stolen all the hot water._  
  
Then they go to school, and Sam sets up a date with Trixie Hammond of the lacrosse team, and judging by Dr. Gillian's disheveled look during fifth period Physics, Dean finally succeeds in seducing the school's hottest science teacher.  
  
So, all in all, it's a pretty normal day. Things only start to get weird once the bell rings.  
  
Because Dean doesn't say anything about his birthday—not a word. Sam gets into the passenger's seat and they drive off, Dean whistling at the cheerleaders practicing near the road, and nothing is said about their if-Dean-was-anyone-but-Sam's-brother-it-would-be-a-date.  
  
They get home and Dean whacks Sam upside the head, ordering him to do his homework; Sam snorts derisively, since they both know that no one's ever had to force Sam to do his work.  
  
It's only after he's done three pages of calculus problems and practiced his trumpet that Dean comes bounding down the stairs, whacks him on the head and says, “Alright, let's get going.”  
  
“Where?” Sam asks, grabbing his coat.  
  
Dean grins evilly. “You'll see.”  
  
“But I want to know now,” Sam whines as Dean grabs the bottles of tequila he's hidden in the fridge, behind the five pizzas Dad left with them.  
  
“Patience is next to godliness.” Dean opens up the passenger door. “Slide on in, squirt.”  
  
“That's cleanliness,” Sam says. “And I'm taller than you!”  
  
“Your dick's smaller, though.” Dean grins and plops the two cold bottles in Sam's lap, shutting the door on Sam's indignant—but manly, of course—yelp.  
  
“So, where're we going?” Sam asks as soon as Dean gets into the car.  
  
“Just shut the fuck up and hang on a minute,” Dean says, but he's grinning as he peels out of the driveway.  
  
The town they're staying in is relatively small, so “Big Balls” isn't even halfway done playing when Dean pulls into the school parking lot.  
  
“Oh, you've got to be kidding me,” Sam groans. “You want to get drunk in our _school?_ ”  
  
“It's as good a place as any,” Dean says, and Sam narrows his eyes—because there's very definitely something Dean's not saying.  
  
“What aren't you telling me?” he asks suspiciously, not really expecting an answer.  
  
Dean snorts. “Get out of the car, nerd,” he says, “and gimme a bottle.”  
  
Sam obeys; a second later he's standing in his eerily empty school parking lot, blinking up at the huge, dark building that, in some ways, is more familiar than the house they've been staying in for going on a month.  
  
All schools are more or less the same.  
  
“Stop thinking, Sammy.” Something cold and wet presses against the back of his neck—Sam leaps away from the bottle, only to hit his knee on the Impala's still-open door. “Shit!” he howls, hopping around, clutching his knee.  
  
“Shhh,” Dean says, pulling him upright.  
  
And it's just fingers on his shoulders, almost anticlimactically ordinary, but it's enough to make Sam stumble again, his body fighting between jerking away and leaning back into the touch.  
  
“How'd you even stay alive this long?” Dean demands, grabbing his hand and tugging him towards the school. It's ridiculous, Sam thinks, but he goes along with it anyway. “Fuckin' klutz.”  
  
“Says the guy who gave himself a concussion on our bunk bed,” Sam retorts. Dean's rueful grin tells him he's won.  
  
Dean jostles him playfully as they head towards the school. Neither of them is really taking this seriously; they've broken into the NYPD, for crying out loud. A school is almost insultingly easy.  
  
Sure enough, the school doesn't even have a security system. “Ten bucks says I can pick the door lock in under five minutes.”  
  
Sam rolls his eyes. “Whatever. I could pick the window lock twice as fast.”  
  
Dean gives him a _look,_ running his eyes from the top of Sam's head to the tips of his steel-toed boots. Sam feels himself turn beet red, but he just sticks his chin out stubbornly.  
  
“Twenty bucks, and loser has to go commando tomorrow,” Dean says finally.  
  
“You're on,” Sam says, and dives for the nearest window.  
  
There's a few minutes of silence. Both of them are panting and working as fast as they can; Sam can feel his heart pounding, and he feels almost dizzy from blood rushing to, um, both brains—but his hands are moving quickly, surely.  
  
With every passing moment, he feels himself getting more and more tense. Dean'll never let him hear the end of this if he loses, and anyway, he doesn't really have twenty to spare. What if he doesn't—  
  
 _Click. Thunk._  
  
“Done!”  
  
Sam blinks; he and Dean have both jumped up and yelled at the exact same second.  
  
“Does this mean we both have to, um, go commando tomorrow?” he says, brushing an errant strand of hair from his eyes.  
  
Dean smirks. He's got a smudge of grease on his cheek and the knees of his jeans are dirty; he looks so fucking incredible that Sam wants to jump him, right there on the high school steps.  
  
“You might as well,” he says. “From what I hear, yours mostly just get in the way.”  
  
Sam's about to give a snotty reply, but then he leans against the wall of the school—and gets an even better idea. “I bet you'd love to know,” he says, smirking. Before Dean can say anything, he twists himself sideways and brushes past Dean into the school, twisting his body so that he _almost_ rubs up against Dean.  
  
He hears a sharp intake of breath, and then Dean's following him inside, stepping on the backs of his shoes so that they almost come off.  
  
“Hey, cut it out!” Sam clutches his tequila defensively. It wouldn't be _that_ big a tragedy if he had to bust it over Dean's head, he thinks with all the pragmatism of an annoyed younger sibling.  
  
But then Dean slips up behind him and _wraps his arms around Sam's waist_ , and Sam's whole head starts to spin.  
  
“Let go,” he says numbly, but he doesn't move—not even when Dean backs him up against a locker.  
  
“Why are you here after hours, young man?” Dean asks, sliding his hands down Sam's arms.  
  
Sam doesn't move.  
  
“And with liquor, too.” Dean chuckles against Sam's ear, his breath warm and moist. “I'm ashamed of you, Sam. You're one of our best students.” Now his hands move down to cup Sam's ass. “We're going to have to punish you, I'm afraid.”  
  
The locker is cold against Sam's cheek and he's hard and hurting and Dean is _right there_ , and suddenly it's just too much to deal with. He pushes Dean away, rolling his eyes, and opens the tequila.  
  
“You're a dork,” he informs Dean solemnly before taking a big enough gulp to make his throat lining feel like it's turning inside out.  
  
“You're a bigger dork,” Dean says, copying Sam's motions.  
  
The whole room seems to spin. “Um,” Sam says. “Wanna go to Dr. Gillian's room?”  
  
Dean's whole body seems to heat up at that. He stretches and takes another gulp of liquor. “Sure. I'll show you where I fucked him blind on his free period.”  
  
Sam feels himself getting hard—or harder, actually—and he thinks that it should probably bother him, but somehow, it doesn't . Here in the dark, still school, wanting to bend Dean over the nearest surface and fuck him blind seems like the most normal, healthy thing in the world.  
  
That fact alone should be worrying, except that he's already had a lot of tequila. Mmm, yummy tequila, he thinks, and takes another gulp.  
  
“C'mon.” Dean pulls him away from the locker and shoves him down the hall. “Gillian's room 's over here.”  
  
It's a good thing the room is on the first floor, because between his raging (stupid word, really. sounds funny, too. “raging,” heh, Sam thinks) hard-on and the alcohol (yay alcohol! Sam's brain supplies), he's not sure he could manage an entire flight of stairs right now.  
  
The room is clean to the point of being weird. A lot of rooms in the school are messy and dirty, but Dr. Gillian's really fadisti—fasidit—really really neat, and Sam can't see any stray paper or dirt or _anything._  
  
It's all Dean's fault that cleanliness turns him on, Sam decides, setting his tequila down firmly on a desk and sliding onto the chair behind it.  
  
Dean wobbles over to Dr. Gillian's chair and sits down. “I blew him here,” he says, a wide grin decorating his face. “He was gasping and clutching the edge of the desk, and when I was done, he called me a good boy.”  
  
Suddenly Dean leans forward, lacing his hands together on top of the desk. “Are you a good boy, Sam?” he asks, leering.  
  
It's moronic and corny and wow, Sam must really be drunk, because he decides to play along. “I don't know, teacher,” he says with wide eyes. “My grades are pretty high, but I was wondering if there's any extra credit work available. I want to be able to do my _very_ best.”  
  
“Hmm.” Dean tilts his chair backwards, leaning against the chalkboard with his hands behind his head. “I can think of a few things.”  
  
Sam blinks at him, doing his best to look sweet and innocent. “Like what, sir?”  
  
“C'mere, Sammy, and I'll show you.”  
  
He's only shaking a little when he stands up and walks to the front of the classroom. It's dark and the room is empty, but this still feels downright _dirty_.  
  
He comes to a halt at the desk. “Yes, sir?”  
  
“Closer,” Dean says quietly. He puts all four legs of the chair down and turns the chair sideways, so that when Sam rounds the desk, he's facing Dean.  
  
“Is this close enough?” he asks innocently, stretching. His shirt rides up, showing off his stomach.  
  
Dean's voice is scratchy when he says, “Maybe just a bit closer.”  
  
Sam takes one, two steps forward, and now he's standing right in front of Dean's closed legs. “What kind of work do you want me to do, teacher?” he asks, reaching out a hand and dragging it down Dean's chest, moving down and resting on his arm.  
  
Dean's voice is low when he asks, “Do you like to dance, Sammy?”  
  
“Yes, sir,” Sam says, moving a little closer. “I love to dance.”  
  
Dean's hands move to his hips, fingers digging in. Dean yanks Sam until he tumbles forward, legs spreading.  
  
He's straddling Dean's lap, he realizes, and Dean's hard and pushing against him like—dancing, Sam's mind supplies helpfully, and he puts two and two together and gets E = mc2.  
  
“ _Oh,_ ” he says.  
  
“Dance for me, Sam,” Dean says, moving Sam's hips in a circular motion. “Be a good boy and dance.”  
  
He's going to _die_ of embarrassment in the morning; some part of him already thinks this is really hysterically funny. But Dean's head is falling back, and his throat is working, and he's hard and grinding against Sam. It's not exactly a hard—er, difficult—decision.  
  
Sam splays his hands on Dean's shoulders, getting just enough leverage to plant his feet on the floor—and he moves.  
  
Logically, any kind of lapdance he tries to give right now should suck, because he's really, really drunk. But suddenly he's able to move sinuously, sliding his hands down Dean's chest, tweaking a nipple and kissing Dean as he grinds his erection into Dean's own.  
  
“You're so sexy, teacher,” he breathes against Dean's ear. “I've wanted to fuck you since I saw you.”  
  
“Fuck. _Fuck,_ ” Dean says; Sam, pleased, fits his body closer to Dean's, moving up and down rhythmically.  
  
Dean's thrusting back now, a rough, irregular rhythm, and his hands are running up and down Sam's back almost convulsively. Sam decides to up the ante a little; he moves back on Dean's lap and, gripping Dean's thighs with his own, pushes Dean's shirt up.  
  
“Do you like this?” Sam asks, and plants a messy kiss on Dean's chest.  
  
“Sammy,” Dean grits out. “Don't stop...”  
  
“Hmm,” Sam says, letting a hand wander round to Dean's back, tucking his hand in Dean's pocket. “What if I did?” he asks, letting his hips go still. “What if I stopped right now and told you I'd only keep going if you let me fuck you?”  
  
He takes a chance and leans in, kissing Dean open-mouthed and wet and sloppy.  
  
“Would you let me fuck you, teacher?” he asks, thrusting slowly and deliberately against Dean.  
  
“ _Fuck_ yeah,” Dean says, and there's a clatter when he pushes against the desk. “God, Sammy, wanna do so much to you...”  
  
“So do it,” Sam says, and now he's moving jerkily, pushing himself against Dean, pressing them together and massaging the bony spot on Dean's lower back, right above his ass, in circles.  
  
“Harder,” Dean pants, moving until he's trapped Sam's legs between his own and the chair's. Sam groans, compensating for the loss of movement by twisting his hips back and forth.  
  
“C'mon, Dean. Come _on_ ,” he says, their game forgotten. He's so hard he feels like his head is about to explode, and every time Dean grits his teeth or closes his eyes or rubs against him, his entire world spins.  
  
“Fuck this,” Dean says viciously, and then his arms come up to clutch Sam's, holding him completely still.  
  
“Dean, what—“  
  
But then Dean's scraping his teeth over Sam's nipple, and oh _God,_ Sam can't deal with this—can't deal with the way Dean's hands are practically burning him, can't deal with the bolts of sensation that make his spine jerk and his hips flex, can't deal with the way his dick is pressing against the seam of his pants, just painful enough to be unbearably good.  
  
“Dean, c'mon, gotta come _now_ , Dean—“  
  
And then he's pulling Dean up roughly, hands twisted in his spiky gel-sticky hair, kissing him.  
  
It feels like he's drowning, like the entire world's closing in on him—and then Dean lets go of his arm and slaps his ass and he feels like he's being dropped out of a plane, surrounded by nothing _but_ air, coming in his brother's lap, bracing himself against his brother's legs and grinding his cock against his brother's thigh.  
  
“Oh, _damn,_ ” he says, dazed.  
  
“Sammy,” Dean says, sounding strangled; and Sam realizes that Dean's not done, so he grins and presses the finger on Dean's lower back harder, letting it slip down just a bit, and says in as coy a voice as he can manage, “Yes, sir?”  
  
“You fucking _brat,_ ” Dean says, and then he's thrusting against Sam's hips, coming with choked gasps.  
  
He pulls Sam down for a kiss when he's done, tangling their tongues together.  
  
“That was...” Sam starts to say—and the sense-confusing glamor falls away.  
  
Fuck, fuck, _fuck._ He's sitting in his brother's _lap_ , he's role-playing with his _brother_ , and how could neither of them have noticed that this school is under the biggest freaking lust spell in the history of _forever?_  
  
“We gotta get out of here,” he blurts, scrambling to get off Dean's lap. He ends up falling on the floor, just barely catching himself in time; when he looks up, Dean's staring at him, frozen.  
  
“What?” he says.  
  
Dean shakes his head. “Nothing. Let's get out of here before the lust whatever-it-is tries to kill us, or. Something.”  
  
Sam really doubts that death is what's on this thing's mind, but he just takes the hand Dean offers and pulls himself up, grimacing at his wet pants. He can't even _think_ about the reason right now. It's so incredibly fucked up that he—  
  
Well.  
  
It was just a spell, and that's kind of excusable, but every time he lets his mind wander from _Get the fuck out of here right fucking now_ , he starts getting hard, which is kind of amazingly not good.  
  
So he lets Dean help him up, and they're about to walk out when the spell hits them again. Sam can feel himself getting dizzy and horny, can feel his judgment clouding and his common sense disappearing.  
  
“Crap,” he says, falling against the wall.  
  
“No,” Dean says, struggling. He's stumbling around like a drunk man. “We gotta...gotta get out of here. Grab my shoulder.”  
  
Of freaking _course_ they're going to have to touch if they want to get out of here before they start tearing each other's clothes off. Sam's luck sucks in a big way.  
  
He flings an arm across Dean's shoulder; Dean copies his motion and reaches around Sam's side with his other arm, fitting their bodies together securely. And maybe it's because it's _Dean_ , and they've faced more supernatural shit together than Sam'll ever be able to count, or maybe it's just that being crammed against another person lessens the spell somewhat, but he finds that they're able to limp out of the school, clutching each other for dear life, arms twined together and hands on one another's guns.  
  
||  
  
The spell disappears as soon as they get down the steps. Dean steps away from Sam, grimacing.  
  
“Really should've guessed it, what with you turning into a slut,” he says, to break the awkward silence as much as anything else.  
  
Sam wrinkles his nose. “Oh, please,” he says. “I'm not the one who seduced a _teacher._ ”  
  
Dean has to grin at that—and with relief, because Sam's acting almost normal. “You've got a point,” he says. “But hey, 'least he was hot.”  
  
“Gross!” Sam shoulder-slams him, and Dean grunts, all the awkwardness and no-we're-not-talking-about-this returning to thicken the air, because his pants are damp and he's still hard and it's _Sam_ standing so close to him, completely unaware of the fact that Dean wants him whether or not they're under some freaky lust spell.  
  
 _Fuck._ “Anyway,” he says abruptly, heading back towards the car, “It's over. We'll get Dad to break it in the morning.”  
  
“We're not going to _tell_ him about this, are we?”  
  
Dean stops next to the Impala and glances over at Sam. He's all awkward limbs and wide, worried eyes; between that and the still-rumpled hair, all Dean can think about is how Sam straddled him back in the school, sliding against him and.  
  
Well, the night's already gone to hell anyway, and Dean's always figured that if you're gonna fuck stuff up, you might as well _really_ go for it. “Hey, what he doesn't know won't hurt him.”  
  
He opens the driver's-side door and pulls out the bottle of Jack he keeps for emergencies like this. “So,” he says, leaning against the Impala and giving Sam a grin that's maybe a little sexier than is strictly necessary, “still wanna get drunk?”  
  
Sam grabs the bottle immediately, of course; for both of them, temporary booze-induced amnesia's better than no amnesia at all. “You're like a freakin' Boy Scout. Be prepared, and everything,” he says, taking a gulp. His throat works as it goes down, and when he hands the bottle back to Dean, there's a tiny drop making its way down his chin.  
  
“Better believe it, little brother.” Dean downs a third of the bottle in one go.  
  
The alcohol hits his system almost immediately; he can feel himself loosening up, a grin settling itself on his face. “Anyway, wasn't so bad,” he says, passing the bottle to Sam and licking his lips.  
  
Sam blinks and shifts a little. “Um.” He sounds almost strangled. “Why not?”  
  
Dean watches Sam's body sway as he takes another drink. Almost absently, his hand drifts down to his crotch. “Well,” he says, cupping a hand around himself, “we never took our clothes off. An' you could've fucked me, but you didn't.”  
  
Sam's entire body shudders and he puts a hand on the Impala. For support, Dean guesses, but it's Sam's pale smooth bony skin against his baby, and.  
  
“Fuck.”  
  
He's pulling off his pants before he realizes what he's doing, and he half expects Sam to, he doesn't know, run away, or something, but instead Sam just watches with that pretty mouth of his wide open.  
  
“Dean,” he says. Dean's heard him sound less out of breath when an ogre's punched him in the stomach.  
  
Dad's always said that liquid courage is the worst kind—but then, Dad's never seen Sam drunk and flushed and horny.  
  
Oh, shit, bad image. Dean grimaces and takes another drink.  
  
“C'mon, Sam-I-Am,” he says, and stretches out across the Impala's hood, propping himself up on an elbow. “You gonna give me my birthday present, or what?”  
  
“Oh, God,” Sam says, and he sounds weak. Helpless.  
  
Dean smirks and stretches further. “In or out, Sam. Your choice.”  
  
There's a few moments of silence; Dean waits patiently, the warm buzz of the whiskey making his body feel like liquid against the Impala's cool metal.  
  
“Fuck it,” Sam mutters under his breath, and then he gets that determined look that Dean's jerked off to way too many times in the past year or so.  
  
Then Sam crosses his arms and rips his shirt off, and seriously, it's kind of unfair that his baby brother is that fucking _built._ His pants are riding low on his hips and his hair is even more messed up than it was before, and he's panting, looking halfway between horny and pissed off.  
  
“Hurry the fuck up,” he hears himself say in a tight voice.  
  
“Not yet,” Sam say—and then there are two huge hands skimming down Dean's back, bringing back memories of Sam dancing on his lap, calling him teacher, making Dean beg.  
  
“Sam.”  
  
“Shhh.” Hands inching under his shirt, pulling it up, exposing his skin to the Impala's metal and Sam's own touch. And Dean can't help it—he's up against the fucking _Impala_ , and that fact is turning him on almost as much as Sam's hands sliding around him, tugging on a nipple and tracing his hipbones.  
  
There's rustling and then Sam's stepping forward, pressing his body to Dean's—pointy angles and baby-soft skin, _young_ , and when Sam's cock presses against Dean's ass, when his chest rubs against Dean's back, he hears himself moan.  
  
“Get on with it,” he mutters, curling the hands resting on his car into fists.  
  
Sam just smiles against Dean's skin and wraps his arms around Dean's chest.  
  
Dean pushes his ass back against Sam's dick—and Sam, predictably, gasps, thrusting jerkily against Dean. “Keep this up, it'll be over too soon,” he whispers harshly.  
  
“You already came once, Sammy.” Dean reaches behind, caresses Sam's hip. “I'm pretty sure you can last.”  
  
Sam makes a little whimpering noise, dropping his forehead back against Dean's back. “Lube,” he says. “I need, um. Do you have any?”  
  
“Pants pocket,” Dean says. There's a brief moment of cold, and then Sam's back against him, setting the lube on the car next to Dean's hand as he slicks his fingers.  
  
“Tell me if I'm doing this wrong,” Sam whispers, and then there's a slick finger pushing at Dean and a hand pressing onto his lower back, holding him still.  
  
“Harder,” Dean says, fighting to keep himself grounded, because the fact that it's Sam, Sammy, fucking his bony finger _inside_ Dean, and. “God, Sam, just _do_ it,” he says, and he barely recognizes his own voice.  
  
Sam laughs, a breathy exhalation against Dean's neck. “Don't wanna hurt you,” he says, one hand splaying across Dean's head, messing up his hair and pulling him back far enough for a kiss.  
  
“You're not going to hurt me,” he says when Sam lets him go. “'ve...this. I've done this before.”  
  
Sam jerks against him. “Crap,” he whispers, and now the hand on Dean's shoulder is shaking. “What do I. I mean.”  
  
“Two more fingers.” Dean pushes back against the one Sam's moving around awkwardly, moaning. “Just stick 'em in. I—“ like it rough, he doesn't say, because making Sam faint from shock would kind of suck right now.  
  
But Sam doesn't need any more hints. He works another finger in, and then the third, twisting his wrist and...fuck, _stretching_ Dean, too gently, fucking _curiously_ , and it's so purely, almost aggressively Sammy that Dean's moaning even before Sam presses his fingers together and fucks him once, twice, curling and twisting his fingers until—  
  
“Oh, Christ, just put some slick on your cock and _fuck me,_ ” Dean says, and he honestly doesn't care how it sounds because either Sam's been doing some research or he's a natural, and either thought is just. Too much for now, when Dean's bent over his _home_ and his little brother's working him over like they were both born for this.  
  
“I already did,” Sam says, and then the fingers are gone and—yeah, that's Sam's dick, hard and broad and pushing in too fast, too _perfect_ , for Dean to hold on.  
  
“God, Sam, harder, c'mon,” rocking against the car, making the car _move_ , hands scrabbling against the cold metal till it's again impossible to tell what's making him harder, the feel of his baby or _Sam._  
  
“Wow. Oh, wow,” Sam whispers, sounding almost reverent. Dean groans and pushes back.  
  
“We can do the sappy love-making thing later, just.”  
  
But he doesn't say anything else, because Sam's teeth are on his shoulder and he's thrusting in and out, steadily, his hips twisting just enough that—oh, _yeah,_ he's hitting that spot over and over, and Dean's head is spinning not so much from the alcohol as from the feeling of _finally_ , and _now_ , and _good, Sammy, so good._  
  
“Please,” he says, and he's not sure what he's asking for, but Sam reaches around and wraps one hand on his dick and the other—the other he puts in Dean's _mouth_ , and of all the ways he's expected to go, death by little brother fucking's really never made it onto the list.  
  
Dean sucks on Sam's fingers and tastes sweat, liquor, and _Sam,_ the last strong enough to make him thrust roughly against the car and then rock back, feeling the double movements of Sam and the car, Sam in his ass and on his dick, his cheeks and stomach and hands feeling the press of cold metal.  
  
It's enough to push him to the edge, and then Sam whispers, “God, you're beautiful,” and it's probably just because they're both more than a little drunk that Sam's confession is the thing that finally makes him come.  
  
“Sam, pleaseohgod _Sam,_ ” back and forth and arching his back, gasping and grinning fiercely because Sam's behind him, panting and coming, and it's never been this good, it's not supposed to be this good, but right here with liquor in his blood and Sam at his back, it _is._  
  
Sam falls against him, wheezing into Dean's ear like he's just run a marathon, pressing him harder into the car. He's going to have some pretty interesting bruises tomorrow; it's funny how he doesn't care.  
  
“Gotta get up,” he mutters. “Can't stay here...one of us might puke.”  
  
Sam's laugh is a _whuff_ of air against Dean's back. “That'd prob'ly be the least of our problems,” he murmurs.  
  
“True.” Dean winces when Sam pulls out; he thinks maybe it's proof that whiskey turns him into a complete girl that he'd like to stick around and cuddle Sam for awhile.  
  
Instead he opts for sitting on the hood of the car, naked except for his shirt, whiskey dangling from his fingers. Sam hops up next to him—Dean glances down and snorts, because Sam's decided to take off his shirt and spread it underneath him, like his ass will damage the car, or something.  
  
“We're gonna want to die once we're sober, aren't we.”  
  
Dean lets himself grin. “Yep.”  
  
“Hm.”  
  
They're both silent for a minute; Sam shifts just enough so that his shoulder brushes Dean's.  
  
“Hey, Dean?”  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
He's not looking at Sam and Sam's not looking at him, but they're both leaning into the not-quite-touch, staring at the school that fits better into their lives than either of them would've thought.  
  
“Happy birthday.”  
  
The whiskey falls to the ground when Dean laughs.  
  
||  
  
End  
  
||

  
 


End file.
